Thursday, October 04, 2007

EveryblogI visit today seems only interested in talking about Sputnik as though some lump of metal sent into the upper atmosphere and marking the point that humanity first entered space is somehow important. Does nobody care that I nearly broke my neck trying to rescue a cat from a roof this morning?

Because it was such a sunny day, I’d gone for an early morning jog around the neighbourhood. Everybody knows me in these parts so nobody raises an eyebrow when this perfect specimen of manhood goes running in nothing but sneakers and an Adidas sport’s thong.

Not even Mrs. Sharp, who lives at the end of the road, and must be on the riper side of eighty. She doesn’t seem offended in the least. In fact, she appeared quite happy to see me when she waved for me to stop.

‘Mr. Dale,’ she gasped, ‘I’m so sorry to bother you but could I be a nuisance and ask you to lend me a hand?’

‘I’d be delighted,’ I said. ‘The Chipster is always here to help ladies in distress.’

She flushed, possible the first time in years, and she turned up her hearing aid.

‘It’s Badbum,’ she said. ‘He won’t come down.’

‘Badbum?’

‘He’s my cat,’ she said and pointed up at the roof of her extension. A cat was sitting up there looking superior. She pointed to a shed at the bottom of the garden. ‘I have ladders,’ she said.

I’m no stranger to ladders. I have a small set of step-ladders I used in my Windowcleaner routine. In fact, they’re so much second nature to me, I would just have to remember not to take off my thong when I came back down.

With the ladders propped against the wall, I climbed up to the roof and was balancing precariously on them as the cat slowly rolled over as though I should rub his stomach.

‘Don’t hurt him,’ she said.

‘He’s alright,’ I shouted. ‘Quite docile.’

In fact, he was more than docile. He was almost asleep. I slipped one hand under him and began to slowly lift him to my chest. And that’s when it became apparent how the cat had got his name. He deficated over my shoulder. Or should I just write ‘crapped’? No words seem to do it justice. The fumes were noxious. Worse than fish or dead rats.

‘Oh, Badbum, how naughty,’ cried Mrs. Sharp.

The cat didn't seem ashamed. After evacuating itself over my shoulder, the cat had leapt from my grasp and landed on the ground without a care in the world. He simply sat down and began to lick himself.

It was too late for me. As the smell hit me, the ladder toppled and I fell. The crash of the ladder merged with the sound of something sharp scrape along my back before I came to a sudden halt.

When I opened my eyes, I seemed to be floating ten feet off the ground. In actual fact, I wasn’t floating as much as hanging by the strap of my thong from the toilet overflow pipe running from bathroom.

‘Oh dear,’ said Mrs. Sharp. ‘I’ll go and get help.’ And with that, she ran to the front gate to wave down the next poor fool stupid enough to get involved.

In the end it came down to one of the neighbours lifting the ladder and helping me to get myself unhooked. I didn’t feel much like jogging after that. I went home where Gabby refused to allow me in the flat. She ended up throwing buckets of water over me as I stood beneath the rear window scrubbing myself clean.

As for my thong, it’s ruined unless I want to wear it over my shoulders. But say what you like about sporting manufacturers asking ridiculous amounts of money for their merchandise: Adidas make strong thongs. And you can take that as this week’s official Chip Dale thong recommendation.